


Neon

by thehonestman (orphan_account)



Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Introspection, M/M, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Non-Explicit Sex, Suicide, mentions of illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thehonestman
Summary: Men like Junhui will be impressed by your high personal standards.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Neon

Xu Minghao is a fraud by definition. For the past twenty something years of his life, he has spent all his time doing nothing other than figuring out exactly what to say to people to put on a certain image of himself, to leave a very specific impression of himself on them. He lives entirely calculated: excelling in everything, especially in manipulating others to like him, admire him, desire him. It’s easy, to him. As long as he’s self aware of how hollow and unhappy he is inside, he’s still able to work on making sure he comes across to other people in the exact way he wants to. 

By definition, he is an absolute fraud, and this _hobby_ he has picked up is no better. For the fifth night in a row, Minghao finds himself in a support group for people suffering from a disease he does not have. He has no reason to do it, really. Maybe it will actually heal him from his own condition of being a fraud eventually. But for now, he just goes to be around sad and suffering people, sitting on the sidelines wearing a fake name tag, not saying anything, just watching, reading, calculating. Calculating exactly how long to be silent before he speaks when someone asks him how he’s doing, calculating exactly how many friends to say he has lost due to his fake disease, calculating how long to fake a pensive gaze when other people are speaking. It’s all very easy for him, it’s so simple to make people pity him. He doesn’t want the pity, though, just wants the superiority of being the one who is suffering the most. Even though he’s the only one not suffering at all.

This support group is for pancreatic cancer. Which Minghao does not suffer from, of course, but due to his professional status as a fraud, it’s easy for him to fake it. As he sits with his legs drawn in, hands on his knees, head tilted _just so_ , he listens intently to the person speaking, relating their problems, and he muses on how easy it would be to hurt this person like he’s hurt so many before, just because he could. There, he reflects on the times he has homewrecked marriages between people he cared nothing about, manipulated his parents into giving him money he did not need, and tricked his friends into seeing him as a god, an intellectual deity, a model of perfect composure. And he thinks of how easy it was to do those things and how much easier it would be to do it to people so weak from pancreatic cancer or some other sickness. They’re that much more vulnerable and that much easier to manipulate into believing he’s better than them because apparently, he will die without that validation.

He sits on these thoughts as he listens to the others speak. And that’s all they are, to him. Others. He reads no nametags, memorizes no faces. Just listens to them and never makes particular notice of anyone personally until he starts to notice a pattern. The pattern is that of a man that refuses to be ignored, apparently. Refuses to be reduced by one of Minghao’s glances like all the others are. At pancreatic cancer, Minghao catches the eye of the man with a thin face sitting closest to the exit. When they lock eyes, the man had already been looking at him, and Minghao is sure he has seen him before. In the past week, even. Minghao gives him a look of sadness he has practiced so many times before, trying to get him to worship him like the others. The man looks away, and Minghao takes it as a victory.

Minghao sees him again the next night at depression, and again the next night at heart disease, and now he can’t remember the last group he hasn’t seen him at. They catch eyes more often, even go so far as to stare at each other, and Minghao doesn’t like it because the man looks at him like he’s never been looked at before. Usually, the man sits close to the door and leaves first, often before the meeting is even over. He cites that he has an appointment, and Minghao pities the fact that he makes no effort to get other people to like him. But no one seems to mind.

After cystic fibrosis, Minghao makes the executive decision to meet the man and get him to speak to him. Outside, once the man leaves swiftly at the meetings end, Minghao catches up to him outside on the sidewalk. But he does not talk to him directly, just walks by, stalks around in front of him to let himself be seen and wanted. He knows it has worked when he hears the man chuckle behind him, and he turns around to feign surprise and turn on the charm.

“Oh,” he says. Up close, the man has quite a unique face. Much more delicate than his own. Much weaker.

“Oh, indeed,” the man says, and Minghao wants him to want him. “I’ve seen you around.”

“Yeah.” Minghao tilts his head. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you come to all these meetings?” The man quirks a brow.

“I could ask you the same question. You’re not sick with any of these things, are you?”

“You’re not either.” The man smiles.

“You’re right. Do you mind me coming?”

“Not at all,” Minghao lies. He turns the charm up even more. “It’s nice to see a familiar face around.”

“I have a nice face?”

“That’s not what I said,” Minghao regains control of himself and says what the man surely wants to hear. “I just come to these to feel less alone, and to see if I can help others.”

“You never speak.”

“You’ve taken quite a notice of me.” The man breathes out heavily.

“Is that your real name?” he asks, nodding toward Minghao’s name tag. Minghao quirks a brow and rips it off after a second of staring the man in the eyes. “Xu Minghao,” he says, waiting for the man to offer his name as well. When he doesn’t, he makes the effort to ask if his name tag is real. He’s expecting that it is, but that’s not what he gets. The man rips his own name tag off instead and smiles brilliantly.

“I’m Wen Junhui.”

“A pleasure,” Minghao says, and offers his hand.

“Is it?” Junhui shakes, and Minghao looks at him quizzically. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Junhui says then, and leaves Minghao alone in the dark. On his walk home, he calibrates the great unrest he feels at not being the clear winner of the interchange, reminds himself that none of this fraud business actually matters.

* * *

The next night at anxiety disorders, Minghao smiles brightly when we walks in and sees Junhui sitting by the exit once again. It’s a bit later this time, and thanks to the sticky heat of the church basement, the exit door is propped open and it’s a black backdrop for Junhui who sits squarely in front of it, pale skin glowing like a vampire. Minghao talks as much as is necessary throughout the meeting, fronting a story about how he wakes up in the morning and can feel his heartbeat thrumming through his whole body for no reason. He does not look once at Junhui, even as he shares his own story of his anxiety borne out of some past trauma he’s faced. He poses, though, because he knows Junhui is looking at him and knows how easily he can be tricked into thinking highly of him.

After the meeting, Minghao lingers a bit longer than usual until he is the last person to head out the exit he had watched Junhui head out of earlier. But when he does leave, Junhui is still standing outside, waiting around and smoking a cigarette. When he catches Junhui’s attention, they exchange no words. Junhui grabs Minghao by the collar of his shirt, pulls him toward him and kisses him deeply. Minghao laughs when they pull apart.

“Yeah,” he says lowly, sizing Junhui up.

“Yeah? Wow.” Junhui laughs. “I knew you were fucking gross.”

“You know me well.” Junhui says nothing. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

“If you want.”

“You should know what I want, if you know me so well.”

“I was kidding. I don’t know you at all.” Minghao laughs in a way that makes it seem like he’s brushing off the comment, but he’s relishing in it, basking in its very irony.

“There’s not much to know.” _Fake modest, but don’t seem shy. Men like Junhui are not impressed by that._

“I’m sure that’s not true.” They sit down, then, on the curb, passing Junhui’s cigarette back and forth.

“I don’t do much, really. Read, paint, travel.”

“What do you read?”

“Well my favorite is probably _Anna Karenina_ or _Don Quixote_ as far as fiction goes. But I try to keep up with social theory, Noam Chomsky and the like. Pretty basic stuff.” He runs through the litany that he’s told so many times before.

“Doesn’t seem that basic.” Minghao glows when he hears this. Now, he pulls out his phone, the latest iPhone that he waves around nonchalantly in a way he knows Junhui will notice. “Is that the new one?” Junhui points. Minghao pretends to be embarrassed, shoves it back in his pocket slowly and shrugs.

“I shouldn’t even have it, it’s stupid that I keep it on me,” he says, because _men like Junhui will be impressed by your high personal standards_. “These things are ruining society. No one knows how to have a conversation anymore.”

“You’re having one right now.”

“Feels like I’m the only one.” Junhui is silent for a moment, looking directly at Minghao but somehow also looking directly through him. He takes a drag of the cigarette, brushing purposefully against Minghao’s hand as he grabs it. “You said you travel a lot?”

“I mostly go to see the big festivals all around the world. Burning Man, Carnival, Songkran, Holi. A lot of people are quite ignorant nowadays. They never have any appreciation of other people’s cultures.” The words mean nothing to Minghao, but they’ll mean something to Junhui.

“I don’t travel much, myself,” Junhui says. Minghao takes the cigarette back, and with his other hand, he grabs Junhui’s head and pulls him closer to him, draws the cigarette then shotguns the smoke into Junhui’s mouth before kissing him.

“There’s always time,” he whispers before placing the cigarette back in Junhui’s mouth, standing up and walking off. Admittedly, it doesn’t usually take this long for Minghao to get someone to worship him, but he shakes it off and walks on with the complete satisfaction that Junhui is now obsessed with him, if the first kiss hadn’t been enough of an indication. 

* * *

“Thank you for sharing your story,” the moderator drones. A woman sits down gently, wiping her tears and smiling pitifully at all the other Crohn’s sufferers. “We’re here for you.” Minghao wants to roll his eyes but that would be inappropriate. “Does one last person want to share?” No one offers outright, not even Junhui who, Minghao has noticed, has neglected to speak up at the past three meetings. “Anyone?” the moderator offers again.

“I will.” Minghao stands, introducing himself by a false name to the group. Usually, he doesn’t deign to do a whole song and dance in telling his story, but something about the way those fluorescent neon white lights glow on Junhui’s vampire skin makes him want to stay longer. He catches Junhui’s gaze, who looks utterly unimpressed. “I’ll try to be quick.” _Clap your hands together and breathe in deeply so they know this is difficult_. “It started a few years ago, I was really into soccer for my entire life.” _Pause for the approving head nods_. “I started getting fevers all the time, eating became really painful, as I’m sure you all know.” _Listen and smile at their chuckles that come from their mutual pain._ “The thing that has really been affecting me all this time was how much I’ve had to give up. I feel kind of like a coward for giving things up, but it was unbearable.” _Bathe in sympathy because you are an attractive young man and these people are idiots._ “I was in training for soccer, planning to go pro, actually, but I couldn’t stand it. My girlfriend actually left me too because she couldn’t keep up with the issues when they were at their worst.

He looks to Junhui once more, and he is leaning forward now, listening intently but not happy. Minghao puts on the tears, ready to pull this all together. 

“I don’t know,” he continues. “I guess I’m just here to hope for better times. Things are better now, actually, but it’s hard to keep hope when I’ve lost everything.” He powers his brain down then, lets more words fall out of his mouth on his own as he sits back down, takes in the moderator’s “we’re here for you” before shutting his mind off completely, running through the prayers at the meeting’s end.

“Remember, everyone,” the moderator announces as coats are put on and chairs are pushed back into place, “no meeting next week.”

“Tragic,” Minghao hears from behind him, and he jumps and smiles when he finds Junhui pressed closely to him.

“Truly,” he nods back at him. Side by side, they head out the back door, and before Junhui can walk off toward his own place, Minghao pulls him in the opposite direction, into the alley between the municipal complex and the public library. Junhui leans in to kiss Minghao, but is quick to fall to his knees when Minghao pushes him down by his head.

“Suck my dick,” Minghao says, and Junhui has no complaints. He sucks Minghao off in the alley with earnest, all spit and snot and cold hands and too fast, but they both take it. Minghao keeps one hand on top of Junhui’s head, one on his left shoulder as he guides him and talks to him the entire time.

When Junhui comes back up, he tries to get Minghao to suck him off too, but Minghao just spits into his hand with the same ugliness and speed that he had forced Junhui to use, and pulls him close and lets his mouth brush Junhui’s as he gets him off with his hand. He no longer needs to convince Junhui to do anything. 

“Quite a show you put on in there,” Junhui whispers. Minghao laughs. “Would your girlfriend like to see you doing this?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Minghao says, and pulls Junhui harder. When Junhui comes, Minghao wipes it on his face.

“Fucking gross,” Junhui says.

“Yeah,” Minghao says as he readjusts Junhui’s pants for him. “Say it again.”

“You’re fucking sick.” 

“Go,” Minghao says. 

“You don’t want to come with me?”

“Not now,” Minghao smiles at him. “I have to go see my girlfriend.” He smirks and pushes Junhui away from him, and honestly, he feels a bit gross as he watches Junhui walk away, follows him far enough to see where he lives. And because Minghao is fucking gross, the next thing he does is completely unprecedented. Having killed about an hour outside alone, contemplating his sadness, he shows up uninvited at Junhui’s front door.

“Wow,” is all Junhui has to say, because Minghao has not actually surprised him.

“You forgot something in the alley.”

“What’s that?”

“Can I come in and show you?” And from there, Minghao allows himself into Junhui’s house and into Junhui’s body. But having actual sex with Junhui does not prove to be as simple as getting him off had been, because once again he gets caught up in his head, unable to stop himself from performing and trying to make Junhui put him on a mental pedestal as opposed to just doing what he wants. Mid thrust, he almost feels himself begin to cry but holds himself back when he feels Junhui trying to read his mind. He just picks Junhui up and takes him from behind instead, both so he doesn’t have to look him in the face anymore, and also because he needs to let Junhui know how good and experienced he is.

“Do you always show up at people’s houses unannounced like this?” Junhui asks, still being manhandled by Minghao in a bed that is far too loud for their purposes.

“No,” Minghao lies, panting heavily now as he finishes. “Only you.” He can’t help being a fraud. “Only you.” Some time later, lying in bed together, Junhui turns over to face Minghao with an unreadable look on his face.

“You’re quite impressive,” he says, and Minghao barks out a laugh.

* * *

People never stop suffering, and support groups never stop running. While Minghao sits around at meetings, reveling in the easiness, he finds a certain peace in his fraud act. It’s still unintentional, of course. He always wishes he could make the change to return to his true self, but he doesn’t think that person even exists anymore--he’s spent so much time lying, so long molding himself to fit the situation in order to become popular with literally everyone that he truly does not believe he will ever heal. But it’s fine with him, because he has already made the decision that he can escape whenever he wants to. So for now he goes to support groups because he cannot support himself. 

Junhui still goes to the meetings, of course. But they don’t communicate there at all. They catch eyes often, but other than that, it’s a constant game of how uncomfortable they can make each other by their mutual presence. But after the meetings is where the talking happens. Most meetings are followed by hook-up sessions at either of their houses, but after, and only after, in the comfort of either of their beds, do they talk freely and openly. As freely and openly as frauds can speak, at least. Because Minghao is of course still a fraud to Junhui. Everytime they delve into conversation over cigarettes, Minghao still finds himself automatically keeping up his image because Jun is simply a quiet person.

He doesn’t know, really, what Junhui is thinking about when he sits in silence. Part of what has made Minghao so charismatic is his ability to fill any void of silence, avoid any kind of awkward moments in conversation, which other people appreciate and thereby respect. It’s very natural, it’s very easy; so he doesn’t understand why he’s so drawn to Junhui in the same way he wants others to be drawn to him when Junhui makes no effort to be alluring. As long as there’s no effort on Minghao’s part either, however, it’s fine by him. He really doesn’t care all that much about him. But still, he often catches Junhui just looking at him, as if he’s trying to read him, the same way he had looked at him at that first pancreatic cancer meeting, the same way he had looked at him on the curb, and the first time they’d had sex. He knows, at least, that Junhui’s brain is not as fucked up and confusing as his own, so he’s still smart and interesting and impressive to Junhui because he’s just as simple as the others. The only time Minghao hears Junhui say more than a few sentences at a time is when he gets too comfortable, too in touch with the hollowness within him. It’s easier to be liked.

“You look disgusting” Minghao says to Junhui once after they’re done hooking up. He doesn’t mean it, of course, but brutal honesty is a trait that others have responded well to before. Junhui just laughs because somehow, they share inside jokes now.

And so they continue like that for a while, and Minghao kind of grows fond of Junhui, fond of the companionship that he finds in him. They’re unconventional, sure, but it works and Minghao likes him a lot. Or at least whatever identity he puts on around him. He gets almost dependent on Junhui, almost like Junhui has taken him in somehow. He actually hopes that Junhui could heal him, because after all, he does still want to be healed. He knows, obviously, that he has shown his true self to Junhui more than anyone else, but Junhui is not astute enough to notice. But more than anything, he lets Junhui fall in love with the fake image of himself, because that’s what he thinks he’s doing. He does feel bad for tricking Junhui into thinking he’s much more impressive than he is, but he can’t stop himself. It’ll keep up forever, so it’s probably not that good of an idea to become too dependent on him. He cares almost enough.

* * *

At one support group, actually at a group neither of them had ever been to before, Junhui sits down in the chair directly next to Minghao but says nothing. Minghao touches Junhui’s thigh briefly, but pulls back almost immediately. Junhui still says nothing until the session actually starts, and a man stands up and starts telling his story. Completely inconspicuously, Junhui leans over to Minghao and whispers to him.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m going to kill myself.”

“Do it.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the meeting, not until they’re back in Minghao’s bed late at night. And again, Junhui tells him:

“I’m going to kill myself because of you.”

“Do it,” Minghao says again, and Junhui just looks at him, long and hard, wondering why Minghao can’t get over himself. Minghao has that same thought often, and it’s no surprise when he can see through Junhui’s face.

“What will it take for you to stop this?” Junhui asks. “What will it take for you to realize that other people can see through you?” Minghao doesn’t like to hear this, but he surprises himself as well by feeling more hope that Junhui may actually be able to help him. He also assumes that Junhui won’t actually kill himself. Or maybe he will, but now this is about him, as his thoughts so often were, and Junhui may be just making a point by saying these things. Minghao can play dumb, though, because that’s part of the art of the fraud. And that’s all that matters, to him. Automatically, he is sweet and defensive and doesn’t let himself get carried away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jun.” 

Junhui kisses Minghao one more time before leaving.

* * *

“We’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Junhui says in bed a few nights later. Side by side, so they don’t have to see.

“That’s right.”

“I never make friends like you,” Junhui says. Minghao turns, hating to be caught off guard and expecting Junhui to say something else, but Junhui just looks.

“Friends?” Minghao chances. Junhui raises his eyebrows, waiting, pushing. “You’re . . .”

“What?” Junhui is too transparent, and Minghao is too self-aware to get caught in the same traps he always sets for others. 

“You’re trying to get me to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Nothing,” Minghao says, sitting up right. “Come here.” He reaches across Junhui’s waist, pulling him on top roughly. He does want to touch him gently--wishes he could make a spectacle of the whole thing as he just sighs and runs his hands over Junhui’s chest and shoulders and kisses him with the passion of a _real_ lover, of a _real_ person. He is beautiful, to Minghao, so sleek and neat. But he instead gropes him harshly, because that prevents Junhui from doing what he’s trying to do. Minghao can’t get enough of how easy it is to get Junhui to sleep with him. _Everything is so accessible._

“Say it,” Junhui says suddenly, and Minghao snaps his head up to see Junhui’s demanding look as he rides him. “Say it,” he says again. Minghao just looks away, tosses Junhui on his back to take him harder. “Get out of your head,” Junhui says from his back now, grimacing as Minghao gets rougher and rougher. Pain. There is pain. And then there is nothing, because Minghao suddenly comes to a complete halt, looks Junhui dead in the eyes: searching, pleading, breathless.

“Help me.”

“I can’t.” Minghao sighs at the predictability, tosses his head to the side and starts going again.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“I knew you’d think so.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck _me_ ,” Junhui laughs out. Minghao tosses his head back and fully gives up then, because there’s no use trying anymore with all the stop and start.

“God,” he says, still perched above Junhui. “You’re fucking killing me.”

“Actually,” Junhui sticks a finger up as he speaks, “ _you_ , quite literally, are killing _me_.”

“Yeah. I thought you’d be dead by now.”

“I’m working on it.” Junhui waits, then, and gives him time to think about what to say next. Minghao’s brain rapid fires for something that’ll make him come out on top like it usually does, but he comes up empty-handed. He says nothing and pretends his silence is intentional because _you can’t care._

“Say it,” Junhui says again amidst the silence. Minghao puts a hand over his mouth, but loosely enough where Junhui removes it immediately. “Fuck you,” he says. “You’re so scared. I love you. You’re so fucking scared.”

Minghao, now, has tears in his eyes as he gives up for the second time, leans over and on top of Junhui’s body and rests his face in his neck. And Junhui holds him as he shakes for his most personal and most hated condition, and keeps repeating to him: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Minghao can’t say it, can’t say anything at all, just wishes that his thoughts didn't happen as fast as they did and that he could fix himself and be real and also be this fake person that he is so desperately obsessed with protecting and that he can be with Junhui and that he can defeat Junhui and that there's some way out other than the way that Junhui is taking but there's not. There's nothing. And Junhui just strokes his back as softly as Minghao had wanted to do to him.

And Junhui is sure. Junhui is so sure.

* * *

The next night, Minghao is not surprised to find that Junhui is not at group. Or the next one, or the next one. After that kind of talk where they had been more real than ever, Minghao doesn’t expect to see Junhui for a while. And he makes no effort to go to Junhui’s house or seek him out in any of the other places that Junhui had told him he frequents. But when it gets to addiction and there’s still no sign of him, Minghao figures that something has happened. He wonders dully if Junhui would have actually killed himself, feels a knot form within him, and lets it pull his mind closer to reality than it's ever been before. At home, he checks the local news online and reads up on what has happened to Junhui. It’s all the headlines. He takes his time reading the details of exactly how many pills he had swallowed and at exactly what time he had crashed his car into a bridge. 

He also takes his time in making his way over to Junhui’s house after reading thoroughly. He then has to insist that he be let inside by declaring himself as Junhui’s “partner” to the police officers posted outside because his house is still considered a crime scene. They don’t believe him until he states his name and they tell him that there had actually been a note left behind, addressed to one Xu Minghao. 

Inside Junhui’s bedroom, on the nightstand next to the bed where they had gotten together for the first time, Minghao finds the note and reads it as he is reduced to the same anxiety he is only used to feeling when he is not securely in the world’s favor. He reads most of the note quickly, letting his eyes run over the words before they can be clouded. Part of the note reads:

_But I can’t live with the person that I’m hiding being in love with the person that you’re hiding, because neither of those people will ever be real. I also know that you loving me back means that I’m manipulating you just the same. I’ve done this all before, and I can’t do it to you. So it’s not really a big deal if I die, it just needs to be done before we destroy each other._

_Sorry for telling you that other people can see through you. You’re good, Hao, but not better than me. I should not have lied to you, anyway. Should not have manipulated you. It’s wrong to be such a fraud in front of other people, but I’m a fraud like you, and that’s why I can see through you. That’s why I know how scared you are. Because I’m scared, too, and there’s no support group to fix that._

_My mind runs in the same circles that yours does, Hao. I’ll see you when you wake up._

* * *

Minghao only goes to one support group now, and it’s about grief, called “Coping with the Loss of a Loved One,” and he wears his real name on his nametag at every meeting and he learns the names and faces of other people--real, live, sentient beings--as well, and he sits in the meetings and he listens and he learns and he cries, and he watches for empty chairs, and every time he sees the fluorescent neon lights of a church basement or an assembly hall, he sees Junhui standing by the exit, all weak face and pale skin, calling and leading him away, reading through every act he had ever put on, staring and asking the silent question: _What will it take?_

**Author's Note:**

> Ispirato a "Good Old Neon" di David Foster Wallace, a.k.a. il manifesto personale dell'autore.


End file.
